


Debts

by Chrononautical



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Fluff and Humor, Food, Footnotes, Minor Character Death, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Travel, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Or three times Anathema Device, witch, gave Aziraphale the opportunity to kiss Crowley and one time she didn't need to.





	Debts

A year or so after the Armageddon-that-wasn’t, Aziraphale paused with a spoonful of clafoutis au chocolat halfway to his mouth. “Oh,” he said brightly. “There’s going to be some sort of church fair in Tadfield. Apparently, Adam is in the talent show. Anathema invited us.” 

“In the church?” Crowley wondered briefly just how distracted the angel was by his dessert. The first bite had been rather good, but Crowley was happy enough to cede the remainder.1

“No, no.” Aziraphale waved his spoon dismissively. “It’s really just a village do, mostly on the church lawn. Not anywhere near consecrated ground. We should go.” 

Crowley didn’t actually need an angel to tell him why sucking up to the boss was a good idea, even if the boss in this case was an all-powerful twelve year old. They went to the fair.

It was a pretty tame shindig, as far as these things went. The only excitement happened when a couple of people tripped during the three legged race causing a twelve legged pile-up. Even the angel thought it was funny. The witch thought it was hilarious. 

She liked Aziraphale more than Crowley, which was unusual for a witch. Crowley appreciated that she wasn’t the sort to go in for pentagrams, satanism, and the like. A sensible, no-nonsense witch was a boon to any community. Especially one that wasn’t hanging on his bell all day. He picked up some candy floss for Aziraphale, and they all sat in uncomfortable metal chairs to watch a bunch of kids sing off key pop songs. 

One boy—the well-fed famine with the glasses and the healthy lunch—did magic. He was worse than Aziraphale: no patter, dropped his interlocking rings, and lost the three of clubs. Showing the playing card to the angel was a mistake. Aziraphale chastised Crowley and miracled it back into the kid’s hand. It was the only good trick the amateur magician managed, and he was as surprised as his audience. 

The other two members of Adam’s gang were a bit better. While their act also had no real entertainment value, the two of them competently juggled some pins back and forth without dropping anything. Then the girl traded pins for swords and juggled those for about a minute. The swords were rather disappointing: only three of them and not even sharp. 

Turning around in his seat, Adam looked directly at Crowley. Crowley put on the purest, most innocent visage any demon could manage.2 He did not make any alterations whatsoever to the juggling equipment. Instead, he leaned over toward Aziraphale.

“Say, what was the name of that juggler? The one with the stilts.”

“Lanzi.” Aziraphale’s eyes didn’t leave the stage, but after a moment he added, “And I still can’t believe you tried to have him killed.”

“I didn’t try to have him killed! I just don’t like repeat performances. A little creativity: is that too much to ask? No one wants to see the same show over and over again.” 

“Don’t forget, we have tickets for A Midsummer Night’s Dream next weekend.” 

“Oh, good! I like the funny ones.” 

From the other side of Aziraphale, the witch shushed them both. Adam took the stage. 

His act was novel, at least. A hellhound, the scourge of lost souls, was wearing a tiny cowboy hat and vest, herding a small rabbit through hoops on the stage. It was a perfectly ordinary rabbit, too. Just a fluffy little black and white number with a cowbell around its neck, Adam hadn’t done anything occult to work his will on the little creature. Crowley could tell. So Crowley was impressed. 

Finishing up, Adam announced, “Now put him in the barn, Dog. Dad says a cow needs a stable environment.” Which wasn’t a bad joke.3 Crowley laughed along with the humans as the little dog shepherded the bunny into a cardboard box sloppily labeled with red paint. 

It was reassuring to see the antichrist taking a bow, not murdering anyone or ending any worlds, but it was somehow better to see Adam Young laughing with his friends. Crowley had a soft spot for the little human. 

After that, it was an ordinary sort of fair. Crowley cursed the bell on the strength test to repel the clapper, and watched all the burly boys get frustrated, swinging the heavy hammer for no reward. Making all the eggs in the egg-and-spoon race just a little more wobbly, Crowley ensured that there was no winner at all, only thirty frustrated participants. The road to hell was paved with minor annoyances.4

Aziraphale gave him a cup of fresh, hot apple cider, made right there out of real apples, just like in the old days. Crowly only had to glare at it a little to convince it to ferment. Not a bad day out, all in all. 

The big finale to the fair was a series of actual footraces. Naturally, Adam Young won the boys under fourteen race with aplomb. Crowley clapped in a manner he hoped to sufficiently display his attention and interest in keeping the antichrist happy, but he’d never really cared much about sport. 

“I’m sorry, my dear, I simply don’t like his chances,” Aziraphale said. 

Confused, Crowley took a moment to realize that he wasn’t the dear in question. The angel and the witch were fighting. Sipping his apple cider, the demon settled in to enjoy the show. 

“Newt has been training for months!” Fire flashed behind the witch’s glasses. 

“Obviously his competition has been doing the same.” Waving to the other men lining up, the angel looked apologetic. “I simply advise you not to get your hopes up.” 

Crowley could see what he meant. The specky little witchfinder was lining up with the country boys, and anyone could see that he stood out. Say what you want about a runner’s build, but the other fellows didn’t have their muscles from lifting weights all day. These were men who spent their time pulling stumps, walking their sheep to new pastures, and chasing after that one hen who always hopped the fence. Next to them, Newton Pulsifer looked very much like a fellow who spent his free time cutting clippings from newspapers.5

“Newt is going to leave them in the dust, you’ll see.” 

Crowley knew enough about witches to know that meant she wasn’t sure. If a witch knew what was going to happen, she didn’t get worked up about it. Instead, she calmly took ruthless advantage of her foreknowledge. 

Despite all his friendships with prophets, Aziraphale clearly had little experience with witches. He persisted in annoying the girl. “My dear, if your young man wins this race, I’ll eat my hat!” 

“You aren’t wearing a hat! Or a halo, you sanctimonious angel. If Newt wins, you’ll kiss a demon!” 

The race started. Crowley had to be subtle, but that was fine. He was good at subtle. A little extra dew on the grass and studs on the bottom of Newt’s running sneakers did the trick. None of his competition fell, but the slippery turf slowed them down just enough for a hard working underdog to reach the ribbon first. Cursing the studs away again before anyone noticed was the only tricky bit. Anathema was pretty fast herself, and met her champion with a victor’s reward right at the finish line. 

Crowley sauntered over to offer his congratulations. 

“Aziraphale bet against you,” Anathema said mercilessly. 

Crowley liked her.

Newt just laughed. “I’d have bet against me, too. I can’t believe I did it!” 

“Of course you did it.” Anathema gave him another kiss, sweet as spun sugar. 

“I’ve never been any good at sport,” Newt said.

“You did very well!” Aziraphale gave him a hearty handshake. “I must say, young man, it was a turn up for the books. Tremendously exciting race! Tremendous!” 

While the witchfinder accepted these congratulations with grace, the witch crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Your forfeit,” she demanded.

“My what?” Aziraphale’s face was pure befuddlement. 

“We made a bet.” 

Crowley put his hands in his pockets nonchalantly, barely even listening to the proceedings, wholly unconcerned with the entire affair. 

“We did?” 

Crowley considered wandering away to look at the stalls again, or maybe to watch the next race. That might be too much. No particular demon was specified in the terms of the agreement. What if someone else happened by? What if a hellhound or an antichrist was demonic enough to count? Couldn’t risk it. 

“Kiss a demon,” Anathema demanded. 

“Oh my!” Aziraphale went red. This was obviously an attempt to manipulate the humans. He had enough self control not to blush.6 “Er, do you mind, dearest?” 

Hands still in his pockets, Crowley shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said, uncaringly. 

Stepping in close, Aziraphale arched up and bussed a quick peck against Crowley’s cheek. His lips were slightly sticky from the candyfloss. Holy light wasn’t necessarily warm, but Aziraphale’s body was so close. Crowley could feel him. The scent of cologne and old books overpowered the smells of grass, food, and humanity. Dropping down to his usual height, Aziraphale grinned in relief. After a kiss, the world didn’t end. 

Crowley lost the thread entirely. More races happened, probably. At some point, he thought there was more walking. Then Aziraphale was making noises about the Bentley and heading back to London. The sun was setting. 

“Five minutes?” Crowley asked. 

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll get us some candied almonds for the drive.” 

The witch and the witchfinder were making their own farewells, standing right next to a terrible blue car named Dick Turpin. Crowley sidled up next to Anathema. 

“A little privasssssssy?” he hissed. 

Shrugging, the witchfinder got into the car. Anathema looked to Crowley with unimpressed eyes.

“I don’t sss-suppose that wassss an immediate exchange?” It was worth a shot. She couldn’t know the value of a kiss from Aziraphale. Witch or not, she was only human. She had no context for thousands of years worth of loving and longing. It might be equivalent to helping her boyfriend win a race. Strange things mattered to witches. 

“Immediate exchange?” Anathema raised an eyebrow. 

“Of courssssse not.” Crowley flipped her a card quickly. Owing a witch a favor was a dangerous thing. Failing to pay it could be deadly. “Jusssst call me. No sssssenssssse messsing about with pentagramssss in thissss day and age.” 

“Crowley?” 

She wanted to hear it aloud. That was fair enough. A demon understood the power of words as well as any witch. 

“I owe you one,” Crowley said in a clipped, precise tone. 

Before she could answer, he fled back to Aziraphale. 

Months passed with no word from Tadfield. Crowley spent the time with Aziraphale: walking in St. James, dining out, drinking in, or simply lounging on the sofa while the angel read. Since he wasn’t a clingy bastard, the demon still slept at his own flat, most days. For form’s sake, he occasionally cursed a little more mild irritation into the world. He just also happened to be around and visible in case Aziraphale happened to decide that kissing demons was an experience meriting a repeat performance.7

“Anathema is having a Christmas party in Tadfield,” Aziraphale said. “We should go.” 

Crowley looked out the warm bookshop window at the freezing, gray London drizzle. Christmas was on the way, sure enough. The season was usually a big time for him. Lots of humans putting too much emotional weight on finding the perfect gift, planning the perfect meal, orchestrating the perfect party. Crowley liked to add a little something to the celebrations. Sometimes he made it so the crackers had passive aggressive jokes inside, designed to start a fight with at least one member of the family. Often, he made some very specific toy popular with children at just that age when belief in Santa Claus was most imperiled and then arranged for a factory accident to limit the inventory.8

“Should do something,” Crowley said, half to himself. 

“Oh, not to worry,” Aziraphale said. “I have a lovely bottle of Tokaji Aszu to bring. It can be from both of us.” 

The angel radiated good will and innocence. Crowley didn’t fall for it.

“They’ll never appreciate it properly,” the demon said flatly. 

“These days, it’s considered polite to open a bottle brought by a guest during dinner.” 

“Dessert.” 

“Just the same,” Aziraphale agreed cheerfully. 

Crowley shrugged. “I’ll get a cake or something. You sure you don’t just want to open it here?” 

“My dear!” Aziraphale looked positively scandalized. “I have no intention of succumbing to your temptations, you wily old serpent. Our friends have a right to enjoy the pleasures of the world just as much as we do. Besides, I picked it up with Anathema’s party in mind. She likes wine, but Newton prefers sweet things.” 

Crowley found the dynamic strange and unfamiliar. He did not understand how such a dissimilar couple could cohabit amicably. He wondered at the unusual differences between the two humans. He was amazed by the proposition that such a pair might prosper.

He kept his mouth shut and drove Aziraphale to the party. 

Jasmine Cottage in Tadfield had a horseshoe over the door, but Aziraphale noticed and miracled it away. There shouldn’t have been an awkward scene when Crowley entered. There was. 

Like young couples everywhere, the witch and the witchfinder took great pleasure in demonstrating their love at every opportunity. They also seemed to enjoy forcing similar displays out of others. Answering the door together, they pointed up at the mistletoe swinging lazily over Crowley and Aziraphale. 

“‘Tis the season.” The angel’s cheeks were pink, but that seemed to be due to the chill night air more so than any show of embarrassment. He didn’t hesitate. Soft fingers slid along Crowley’s jaw, catching his chin. Warm lips pressed against the demon’s. A whole entire second passed with the two of them together in the doorway. Then Aziraphale laughed, and pushed into the party. 

Crowley was grateful for three things. First, his sunglasses, which meant that no one could see how blown out his pupils were as his eyes kept returning inexorably to the angel. Second, that a laconic, “What do you think?” could hold up one end of a conversation indefinitely as long as the other parties involved were fairly self interested.9 Third, Aziraphale. Always and only Aziraphale. 

Sometime after dessert but before games, a witch cornered a demon in her kitchen. 

“Is that two you owe me now, Crowley?”

“Yesssssss,” the demon hissed. 

She smiled brilliantly. Whatever Anathema wanted, whatever she was building toward, it was something big. 

“Oh! That’s really very sweet, actually.” 

Crowley blinked. He didn’t have to, but sometimes nonverbal communication worked best with humans. Then he remembered she wouldn’t see it behind his sunglasses. 

The witch patted his arm and forced him to play charades. Sadly, even the loosest interpretation of a favor didn’t include playing a party game at a gathering one voluntarily chose to attend. Anyway, it wasn’t too bad. Crowley was really very good at charades. It wasn’t his fault that only Aziraphale ever managed to guess his clues. 

Barely six months passed before the witch and the witchfinder got engaged. Crowley got a save-the-date card delivered to his flat, an address that was not on his business cards. He stared at it. It was plain tan cardstock with nice engraved lettering in green and blue. Very neutral. Probably not a threat. He seriously considered moving to a different building. 

His phone rang. It was the witch. 

“Cashing in?” he asked. Hellos were for angels and people who didn’t work for a living.10

“Nope,” she said brightly. “I want you to come to Ibiza with me.” 

“That ssssoundssss an awful lot like you asssssking me for ssssssomething.” 

“It’s a hen trip,” Anathema said. “My bridesmaids and I are all spending a week there. We’ve a lovely house already booked, a personal yoga instructor for the mornings, dinner reservations at the finest restaurants, and a private catamaran to go out on the water whenever we want. I’m taking care of everything, so money is no object. Aziraphale already accepted his invitation.” 

“Why?” Suspicion wasn’t so much a survival trait among demons as a way of life.11

“Because I don’t have many friends, and I like you.” 

Honesty was an interesting policy. It was also one of the reasons witches made Crowley uncomfortable. “I don’t like you,” he lied. 

“You don’t have to. You like Aziraphale.” She sounded like a fifteen year old on a playground in Greenwich. “Don’t you want to spend a week at the beach with him? He might need to wear sunscreen. You might need to help him.” 

“I can burn your home and all the denizens within to ash, set plague upon your family, sink your ships, curse your crops, and salt your fields,” Crowley said halfheartedly. 

“You won’t.” Anathema’s voice was a sweet little sing-song. 

“Don’t you have to be a woman for one of these things?” 

“Change your gender if you care.” Not many people can shrug over the phone. Anathema could. “It doesn’t matter to me. After all, you aren’t exactly a man.”

Crowley took this compliment as it was intended and rang off. 

Ibiza was alright. 

As a mild vengeance upon Anathema, Crowley changed his gender to oozing demonic sexuality and turned up on the beach wearing six inch heels. All three bridesmaids fell over themselves trying to get to xem, tripping over pronouns and staring at xir legs. Aziraphale, wearing a white linen suit and a boater of all things,12 barely looked up from his book. 

“New sunglasses, dearest?” he asked. “They suit you.”13

Anathema was also unfortunately immune. Probably she was using headology or whatever it was witches did in the modern age. She watched the bridesmaids buying Crowley drinks, giggling in xis lap, and fawning over xem with the amused air of an indulgent mother. Only when some of the giggling turned into kissing did she grab Crowley’s ear between two fingers. 

“I want you to enjoy yourself,” Anathema said, “but Esperanza is devoted to her wife. Don’t do anything to damage that.” 

“Asssssssking for a favor?” 

“Threatening you,” the witch said cheerfully. 

Throwing on masculinity like a familiar overcoat, Crowley dropped the bridesmaids and slipped into Aziraphale’s personal space. “What are you reading, angel?”

Just like that, the temptation of the bridesmaids ended. Everything had just been a flirtation in good fun, and they’d never really been serious about any of it. Since obviously Crowley was, well, safe. 

“A rather delightful Irish mystery,” Aziraphale said, going on about a poor, traumatized boy who became a detective under an assumed name and had a devoted partnership that transcended romance. From the outside, it might appear romantic, but it was really so much better than that. 

“Sounds nice,” Crowley lied. 

Nightlife in Ibiza was actually nice. Crowley broke up a couple of American tourists while they were thousands of miles away from home just by having the man spill red wine on his girlfriend’s white dress. Aziraphale got sloshed on cocktails with little umbrellas in them and began arguing philosophy with a bunch of twenty year olds. By the end of his hour long chat, the angel had a future saint, a great novelist, and three doctors14 on his hands. 

Anathema and the bridesmaids danced. Crowley danced, too. He liked dancing. He liked the way the humans laughed while dancing, which never happened in hell. Most of all, he loved the way music moved his body. A demon was always the hottest thing on the dance floor, and he always knew it.15

“Dance with me, angel,” he begged drunkenly. “C’mon, it’s fun.”

“No thank you, my dear. I don’t know these modern dances.” Aziraphale looked around with a air of distinct disapproval. Crowley wasn’t sure what dances the angel did know, but given Aziraphale’s tastes, they would be at least a hundred years old. 

Snapping his fingers was the easiest thing in the world. 

If the DJ was surprised to be suddenly playing Chopin, the humans on the dance floor didn’t notice anything amiss. Crowley’s little curse didn’t let them. Instead, they all paired off and continued to dance, laugh, and enjoy the night. Bowing formally, he offered Aziraphale a properly gloved hand. 

The angel accepted, but he also blushed. “I don’t actually know how to waltz, either.” 

“Simple as falling,” Crowley promised. “Just do what we always do: forward and backward, equal and opposite. Only, do it in three quarter time.” 

Aziraphale laughed. He was a brilliant dancer. Crowley knew he would be. Chopin turned into Strauss, followed by Mozart, Vivaldi, and Judy Garland singing Moon River. 

Eventually Anathema cut it. “You’re amazing.” She laughed. “This is amazing! I want to dance with Aziraphale.” 

Letting the angel go, Crowley claimed a dance with the married bridesmaid. 

“When did you have time to change into a full tuxedo?” she asked, obviously impressed by his sense of style. 

“It matched the gloves.” 

“Aren’t you hot?” 

“As hell,” the demon said, and proceeded to prove it with her, the unmarried bridesmaid, and the maid of honor. 

Finally, he wound up with Anathema, waltzing to _A Beautiful Mess_. 

“Having fun?” she asked. 

“Early days,” he said. “Hard to tell. You?”

Her cheek dropped to his shoulder. “I miss Newt.” 

“Want me to grab him?” 

“A favor?” she asked without looking up. 

Squirming while waltzing isn’t easy, but Crowley’s skeletal structure differed somewhat from the human norm. “A freebie,” he said. “Human lives are so—you shouldn’t waste time being apart if you don’t like it.” 

She laughed softly. “You are appallingly sweet, aren’t you Anthony J. Crowley?”

“Lies and slander.” 

“Thank you, but we need the time. To have fun, and to be sure. I never really—I lived my whole life for Agnes Nutter. Marrying Newt needs to be something new, not just a replacement for that.” 

Crowley thought about an ineffable plan: pure, perfect, infallible love; and he thought about plain, ordinary kindness. 

“Everybody needs something to live for. In itself, that’s nothing to fear.” Tripping her through a quick series of complicated twists, he lead Anathema to the bright center of the dance floor. “As long as you’re asking questions, you’ll be alright.” 

The witch really was quite pretty when she smiled. 

Crowley slept through the morning yoga. He napped on the beach. When the group took a catamaran out on the bright, blue sea, Crowley lounged on the deck and closed his eyes behind his sunglasses. As far as vacationing went, he was willing to concede that the trip was not bad. 

It got a whole lot better after Aziraphale had a quiet word with a few locals and insisted on cancelling their lunch reservation. Instead of a restaurant with white table cloths or four star Yelp reviews, the little group of travellers wound up at a picnic table slurping oysters out of the half shell less than thirty minutes after the bounty was drawn up from the sea. Aziraphale made this face when he ate oysters. Crowley had very specific thoughts about the face Aziraphale made when eating oysters.16

“This is incredible,” Anathema said. “Best seafood I’ve ever eaten.” 

“I can’t believe you found this place,” the married bridesmaid said. “It’s not even a hole in the wall: there are no walls.” 

“Always consult the fishermen,” Aziraphale advised. “They know where the best goes. It is a bit of a pity they aren’t licensed to sell a little wine, though.” 

“Some rules are made to be broken,” the single bridesmaid agreed. 

Happy to encourage rule breaking in all its forms, Crowley discovered that he happened to have a bottle of cava on his person. 

“Shame on you,” Aziraphale said, but he just happened to have six proper wine glasses in his own pockets. 

Anathema only laughed at both of them. “Let’s cancel dinner,” she suggested. “Nothing can top this. We’ll go back to the house for more wine by the pool. No planning necessary.” 

Since this seemed conducive to getting very drunk with Aziraphale—one of Crowley’s favorite pastimes—and then sleeping in a comfortable bed—Crowley’s other favorite pastime—the demon agreed very readily. He was betrayed almost immediately by more party games. 

They started with something called, “Never have I ever,” which got him pretty good and drunk. Crowley had done most things. It also made Anathema strangely depressed, and she went to freshen up after about four rounds of the game. 

“She didn’t really have what you’d call a typical childhood,” the maid of honor said. “Her family was—unusual. Put a lot of pressure on her, you know.” 

“Yeah,” said the single bridesmaid. “We met in college. She was the most serious, studious person I’ve ever known. Never had time to relax. I was really surprised that she wanted to do this.” 

“Well, we have all the time in the world now,” Aziraphale said warmly, raising his glass to Crowley. 

“To the world.” 

Angel and demon clinked glasses happily. 

“We should play truth or dare,” the married bridesmaid suggested when Anathema returned. 

“Never have I ever played truth or dare,” said Anathema. To Crowley’s ears it sounded like a spell. He seriously considered sobering up. 

“Truth or dare,” the married bridesmaid asked Aziraphale. 

“Truth,” he said, with all the righteous certainty of a principality of heaven. 

The look on his face when she followed the choice up with a question was priceless. “How long have you and Crowley been together?” 

“Together? As in, together? Well, not long at all, in the grand scheme of things. Not officially, at any rate. Barely two years. Unofficially, I suppose we technically got together about twelve hundred years ago.” 

Crowley laughed. “That makes it your turn, angel. You have to ask someone else if they want to tell the truth or do a dare.” 

“Oh! I see!” he turned to Anathema. “Truth or dare, my dear?” 

“Dare,” she said. 

“I dare you,” Aziraphale began dramatically, “to make a prediction.” 

“A prediction?” 

“Any little thing. Some things are hereditary, you know. And prophecy is such a fascinating gift.” 

“You want me to make a prediction? I can’t.” 

“I didn’t say it had to be true. Just make one. See what happens. Don’t you think it might be fun to look on your own behalf?” 

The witch stared hard at the angel. Then she said, “You’re drunk.” 

“Yes, yes, I am.” Aziraphale nodded. “But that’s only a fact, not a prediction.” 

Anathema shook her head. “I predict that Newt and I will live happily ever after.” 

The bridesmaids all laughed, and the game proceeded. Crowley was dared to stand on his head for missing yoga, which he did until he got bored. He was dared to jump into the pool with all of his clothes on, which he did willingly but changed immediately afterward. Anathema dared him to recite a biblical passage, which was a little cruel, but he managed it with only a little smoke coming out of his mouth. 

Aziraphale answered questions about his most traumatic experience (telling off a boss), his earliest memory (singing with his mother), and his favorite restaurant (the Ritz). These answers were always carefully true, but phrased so that the humans wouldn’t be too confused by the answers. 

“I dare you to take off your sunglasses.” Five glasses of wine into the evening, single bridesmaid seemed to forget that flirting with Crowley was a lost cause. 

“No dear, not that,” Aziraphale said, gently changing her mind for her.17

Anathema noticed, of course, and punished the angel when her turn came around again. When Aziraphale chose truth, being metaphysically incapable of choosing anything else, she asked him a question he wouldn’t answer. 

“When did you realize Crowley loved you?” 

Crowley would have happily killed her, except it would mean owing someone in hell two favors. There was no way to make that end well. 

The answer, of course, was that Crowley didn’t love Aziraphale. He couldn’t. Demons, fallen from grace, are incapable of love.18 For Aziraphale to speak the truth, he would have to call Crowley a snake, and he wouldn’t do that in front of the humans. 

He turned red instead. “I’d really rather not say.” 

“If you won’t tell us the truth, then you have to do a dare.” 

“Very well.” 

“Kiss Crowley,” Anathema said. “Properly. For at least fifteen seconds.” 

Just then, Crowley didn’t actually want a kiss. He was unmoored and adrift on the Mediterranean. Some stupid, irrepressible part of him had dared to hope that after all these years Aziraphale was willing to question the wisdom of heaven on certain points. He’d defied heaven to save the world. Couldn’t the angel just ignore Crowley’s supposed incapacity for the noble feelings?

Of course, he couldn’t. A principality did not question.

All of Crowley’s objections went out the window anyway when Aziraphale’s mouth slanted against his own. The angel opened, and Crowley let him in. A tentative search ensued during which Aziraphale tried to determine what exactly was the dexterity of a forked tongue, where Crowley’s teeth were sharpest, and how aroused a demon could become during the course of a single kiss. At least, that was how it seemed to Crowley. It was all the demon could do to hold relatively still and refrain from moaning or embarrassing himself publicly. 

“Delicious.” Aziraphale’s eyes were glassy from the wine, but his face was not entirely dissimilar from the one he made while eating oysters. 

Crowley held it together for a few more rounds of the game, desperate not to make Aziraphale more suspicious than the angel already had to be. Then, he went to bed. 

Naturally, he was sharing a room with Aziraphale. That shouldn’t have been a problem, since the angel wasn’t particularly fond of sleeping. Sadly, Aziraphale only gave Crowley five minutes before following him to bed. Sprawled across three quarters of the bed in his pyjamas, Crowley nevertheless could only just barely pretend to be asleep. 

“Crowley? Are you already sleeping?” 

“Hnglllng,” Crowley said, hoping the angel would take a hint. 

Aziraphale stretched out on the top of the covers, crossing one leg over the other primly. Crowley didn’t need to see him to sense his movement. The angel got out a book, but didn’t open it. 

“1941,” he said softly. “That was when I knew you loved me. That was when I knew you were as capable of love as any angel, without hope or promise of reward. Sorry for being so slow on the uptake, and for being too shy to say it downstairs. It just feels—private. The humans wouldn’t understand, not even Anathema.” 

Frozen in place, Crowley didn’t move or breath. After a long minute, he remembered to make his heart beat. 

“But why shouldn’t you love me?” Aziraphale continued. “Just as I love you. We are best friends. We always will be.” 

Friends. Yes, yes they were. Reaching up with a lazy arm, Crowley took off his sunglasses. He met the eyes of his best friend. “Not without reward, angel. The rewards have been plenty. More than enough for me, I swear, and far more than I deserve. I don’t need anything other than what we have.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Nor I.” He flushed pink, but Crowley was too tired to puzzle out what he meant to communicate by that. 

Daringly, the demon reached up take one of Aziraphale’s properly folded hands in his own. The angel threaded their fingers together. 

“Good night, angel.” 

“Sleep well, my love.” 

Crowley did. 

After Ibiza, Crowley didn’t expect to hear from the witch again until the wedding. He was surprised to get a call from her less than a week later. He was astounded when she spoke the second he accepted the call. 

“I need my favor,” she said. “Come to Malibu.” 

That was easy enough. “Don’t hang up,” he said, and slipped through the phone call. 

Because she was a witch, Anathema didn’t shriek when a fully formed demon grew between her cell phone and her ear. Instead, she scowled at him for not warning her to put down the phone. Crowley considered his surroundings. A funeral parlor wasn’t an unusual place to find a witch, but the deceased was a rather handsome man in late middle age with somewhat familiar features. 

“Bring him back,” Anathema demanded. 

Crowley called Aziraphale. He didn’t pick up. 

“Bring my father back to life,” Anathema ordered. 

Crowley called Aziraphale again. He didn’t pick up. 

“Crowley, serpent of Eden, demon of Hell, you owe me three favors. I ask three times. Raise my father from the dead.” 

Crowley called Aziraphale again. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale answered, “the shop is currently closed. Please stop calling.”

“It’s me. I need you. Don’t hang up.” 

“Oh! Just a moment,” the angel said. 

Crowley held the phone out away from his ear and seconds later Aziraphale came through the speaker. 

“I don’t want grief counseling,” Anathema yelled. Her hair was whipping about her face though the air in the funeral parlor was as still as a grave. “I want a miracle. I want the three miracles you owe me, demon.” 

“My dear!” Aziraphale looked from the corpse to the witch and drew a correct conclusion. “He can’t. Your father’s soul has gone to heaven. Crowley has no power to draw it back, not at this late stage. He could raise the body, of course, but you wouldn’t want that.” 

Anathema looked at the angel with cold, steady eyes. “Then you bring him back. I’m getting married in a month! My father is going to be there to walk me down the aisle.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” 

“It can?” Crowley was shocked. Parole from hell happened on occasion, but heaven was usually locked up tighter than a garden gate19 when it came to the souls of the departed. 

“Certainly,” Aziraphale said firmly. “There will be a little paperwork on my part, but with Madame Tracy’s help we can definitely have your father attend your special day.” 

Anathema’s face broke. Tears filled her eyes and she collapsed against Aziraphale. “I want him back.” 

“I know, my dear. I know you do. It’s the most natural thing in the world.” 

Putting his hands in his pockets, Crowley said the thing he’d been avoiding since the second he saw her. “Car crash, right? What happened to the other driver?”

“Nothing,” Anathema sobbed. “He was _drunk_. He’s _fine_.”

Crowley looked at the corpse. “What do you want to happen to the other driver?” 

Anathema stopped crying. 

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said sharply. “This is not the time for a temptation.” 

“It’s not a temptation.” It felt like a temptation.20 “Thisss isss jussstisss. Want him in another car crash with identical injuriesss to your father’sss? Want all the blood in hisss veinsss turned into whissskey? It’sss a quick way to go, but not painlessss. Far from it.”

“No,” said the witch, “I don’t want you to kill him.”

“Good! Excellent!” Aziraphale grinned in relief. “I know it’s difficult, but forgiveness is the path to—”

“I want him to suffer.” 

“He desssservesss it,” Crowley hissed. “Ssssome people dessserve it.” 

“Oh my.” 

“Every time he takes a sip of alcohol from now until the end of his life, I want him to think of my father and remember that he’s a murderer.” 

“I suppose that is a just consequence for what he did,” Aziraphale said.

“And then I want the liquid to turn into a spider in his mouth.” 

“Really!” 

“Done,” said Crowley, snapping his fingers. 

Aziraphale sighed. “May it bring you comfort.”

“It does.” Anathema dried her eyes. “I should go help my mother and Newt. With the arrangements.” 

“Of course, my dear. Would you like me to reveal myself unto your mother and proclaim the good news of her husband’s salvation?” 

“No thank you. I’m grateful to you both for coming, but I just don’t have the energy to introduce you two right now.” 

“Completely understandable.” Aziraphale kissed her cheek and hugged her one more time. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Anything at all.” 

“I won’t.” One corner of her mouth lifted in the suggestion that she might, at some point, smile again. “Crowley still owes me two favors.” 

“I do.” Bowing over her hand respectfully, the demon took his leave. 

Because there was no one trustworthy left in London to answer a call, the angel and demon had no choice but to fly. Miracling up a pair of first class tickets was easy enough, however, and they enjoyed a peaceful drink together above the clouds.21

“You’re quiet,” Crowley observed. “Upset with me for tempting?” 

“Not at all.” Aziraphale selected four different pastries from the cart as the attendant came around with afternoon tea. “We both did our duty and let Anathema make her choice. In fact, I think it was overall to the good, if not quite perfectly merciful forgiveness. It’s certainly one way to cure an alcohol problem.” 

“Then what?” 

“I have been wondering, as it happens, how you came to owe a human being three favors. I know it wasn’t during the apocalypse that never happened.”

Crowley shrugged. “She’s a witch,” he said. “She’s clever.” 

“Which means you would usually be especially careful about not letting her get any leverage.” Aziraphale sipped his tea, then placed it carefully to one side. “I have a theory.” 

“Oh?” 

Leaning across the spacious, first class seats, Aziraphale brushed his lips chastely against Crowley’s. 

The demon stared at him. 

“Is that one you owe me, now?” 

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed. And he immediately paid it back with interest.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Over the course of the eighty-three meals Crowley and Aziraphale had shared since the Not-pocalypse, Crowley had ordered eight-three desserts. He had, coincidentally, eaten exactly eighty-three bites of dessert that year. Back  
> 2\. A vague air of inattention. Back  
> 3\. For a twelve year old. Back  
> 4\. And door-to-door salesmen, obviously. Back  
> 5\. He didn’t actually keep the clippings anymore, but he still found it a soothing way to read every article. Back  
> 6\. Blushing, breathing, bleeding: all of it is optional for angels. Unless they’ve become quite used to a human body over the course of, say, six thousand years. In which case a few things might start to come naturally. Back  
> 7\. Some say there is no hope in hell. On the contrary, demons have always found it a perfectly exquisite torture device. Back  
> 8\. Or for the toy itself to be a disappointment. He was particularly proud of an E.T. Atari game from 1982. Not every unhappy Christmas crushed a company. Back  
> 9\. Humans are always self interested. Demons appreciate that. Back  
> 10\. Anyone telling Crowley that he technically did not work for a living would be well advised to do so from the alter of a church while armed with holy water and a flaming sword. Even then: good luck. Back  
> 11\. The only way of life. Back  
> 12\. With a tartan band, no less. It wasn’t stylish. Back  
> 13\. They were, and they did. Back  
> 14\. One of them would technically be a nurse, but he would also spend thirty years treating tuberculosis in Indonesia. At a certain point, saving lives is saving lives. Back  
> 15\. He looked ridiculous. Back  
> 16\. He’d been having them on and off for approximately two thousand years. Back  
> 17\. Humans have free will, but they are also vulnerable to many delightful varieties of divine and occult hypnotism. Back  
> 18\. According to some. Back  
> 19\. Crowley referred, of course, to the three gates not guarded by Aziraphale. The guardians there notably did not give away any celestial weapons or chat with any demons. Back  
> 20\. It was a temptation. Back  
> 21\. One might suggest that two winged entities would not need plane tickets. One would be wrong. Flapping gets very old after the first hour or so, and it’s hard to have a nice glass of claret while passing through a cold, wet cloud without a good strong window between you and the damp. Back


End file.
